


What Love Is

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can he be prescient enough to give what Draco needs, but not realize what Draco has given in return?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Love Is

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Veela Inc. Valentine's Day Challenge. Originally posted February 2003.

_It may well be that in a difficult hour,  
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,  
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,  
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,  
Or trade the memory of this night for food.  
It may well be. I do not think I would._  
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

"Do you ever think about how all this will end?" Harry asks.

They lie together on an antique sofa that has seen better days, but perhaps never been used to such artfully clandestine purpose. It was Harry who discovered this out-of-the-way, long-abandoned lounge on one of his invisible nighttime meanderings. Draco had been impressed. The sofa is surprisingly comfortable, given its obvious age, and is also sturdy, which is important.

Draco's hand pauses on Harry's chest. "What do you mean?"

Harry feels him tense. "I just…I mean…after. You know." He can sense Draco drawing away slowly.

The other boy's voice is low in his ear. Almost cold. "After?"

Harry turns his face into Draco's neck, wrapping an arm more tightly around his waist, but it's like holding a marble statue. "After school," Harry murmurs. "After…the war."

"The war." Draco's voice is dead.

Harry lifts his head and meets Draco's emotionless gaze. "We never talk about it, Draco."

"There are reasons for that," Draco says dryly. "It does rather spoil the mood."

But instead of smiling, Harry draws away, tucking himself into the opposite corner of the sofa, his arms curled around his knees. "Is that all I am to you, Draco?" he asks, his voice quiet. "A mood? A…pleasant interlude?"

Draco turns his head away, as if noticing for the first time the darkened room around them. The wall sconces cast long shadows across the floor, and the high windows are frosted over from the cold. It has been snowing today. It's been snowing all month.

The first time he kissed Harry was in the snow. It was just before the Christmas holidays, a clear, numbingly cold day, a sharp winter sun glittering off the snow-blanketed grounds. There had been nothing on his mind but his upcoming meeting with his father, and what that might represent, when he'd heard a crack of laughter and felt a shock of cold, wet pressure against the unprotected back of his neck as he stalked across the grounds. He spun around to find Harry Potter laughing openly at him, his eyes dancing more with mischief than malevolence. Draco's eyes narrowed when he realized Harry was alone. Unprotected. He took a step forward, and Harry waggled his eyebrows at him, a clear challenge. Draco swooped to grab a fistful of snow and let it fly, smacking Harry on the side of the face, but just missing his glasses. The idiot only laughed and skirted to the left, scooping another handful of snow for himself.

The fray escalated quickly, two wet, half-frozen boys hurling snowballs at one another, crackling madly, their breath misting in the icy air. Draco was startled to find himself laughing—with _Potter_ , of all ridiculous people—and couldn't remember the last time he'd had a snowball fight. The unwelcome thought occurred that he never had. Not once, in his whole life. He halted at the realization, and in that instant Harry tackled him.

It was more through luck than anything else, Draco realized once he got his wind back and affixed his grip over Harry's fists, which flailed as he tried to stuff snow down the front of Draco's coat. Harry's glasses were completely steamed up from the combination of his exertion and the frigid air, and Draco began to laugh again, harder than he had in months, if not years. At the sound, Harry sat back on his haunches, his knees pressed to the ground at either side of Draco's waist, and watched in bemusement through near-opaque lenses. "Why?" Draco gasped.

"Why what?"

"Why did you attack me with a snowball, you bloody imbecile?"

"Oh, that," Harry replied, genially enough. "Well, I had a perfectly good snowball in my hand, and it was a shame to waste it. And you were the only other person around." He grinned cheekily. "Serves you right, anyway."

At that, Draco took advantage of Harry's distraction and abruptly knocked the other boy onto his back in the snow, rising over him menacingly. "What was that remark, Potter?"

"You deserved it," Harry said, still grinning like the idiot he so obviously was. "I've never seen anyone who needed a snowball to the back of the head more."

Draco bent over him, fists pressed into the snow on either side of Harry's head, and felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach. Harry's face seemed unusually blank through the fogged-over lenses, so Draco pinched them by the nosepiece and tossed them aside.

"Hey!" Harry protested.

Without the barrier of his glasses, Harry's face looked…vulnerable, Draco realized. Almost childlike. But, no, definitely not childlike. Harry struggled to get up, but Draco pinned his shoulders to the ground almost without thought. His gaze was concentrated on the face beneath him, the eyes blinking myopically, mouth pursed in frustration. And when Draco leaned down to press his own mouth against Harry's, he couldn't have begun to explain it.

It was just the snow, he would think later. The snow, and the sun, and the cold wetness still dripping down the back of his neck. It certainly wasn't the boy.

The kiss lasted for a few seconds only, a brief press of mouth to mouth, a bump of noses, a sharp inhalation. Draco drew slightly away, and could hear Harry's breath whistling through his nose at a steeper rate. At this close distance, green eyes had no difficulty focusing on gray.

"Why—?" Harry whispered.

Draco's mouth turned downward at the corners and he sat up. "Because you deserved it," he said vaguely. With that, he stood and stalked away, ineffectually brushing at the snow that frosted his cloak in a layer of white. He never once turned back to look at Harry, lying spread-eagled in the snow, staring unseeing at the clear December sky.

But over the holidays, he was annoyed to find his gaze drifting out the window at inopportune times, watching the pristine snow that surrounded the Manor and thinking incongruous thoughts about Death Eater snowball fights. But it wouldn't be the same.

No, he'd think, shivering slightly, definitely not the same.

There were no more snowball fights when school recommenced, but Draco was aware of Harry's eyes on him in class, in the Hall, in the corridors—watchful, suspicious, curious. Finally, one day, Draco grabbed him and pinned him against the wall when no one else was around, yanking his garish Gryffindor tie, his face so close to Harry's he could see his own eyes reflected in the other boy's glasses. "What gives, Potter?" he snarled.

"What do you mean?" Harry choked, his voice roughened from the pressure against his throat.

"I'm tired of you watching me."

Harry raised an eyebrow in a remarkably calm manner for someone in relative danger of asphyxiation. "How would you know I've been watching you, unless you've been watching me?"

Draco's lips thinned, and he saw Harry's gaze drop to his mouth. He inhaled sharply and relaxed his grip on Harry's tie. The other boy's eyes lifted to meet his again, and somehow there was nothing mocking in that forthright gaze. There was no judgment, no pity, no fear. And that was what prevented him from drawing away when Harry tipped his head and pressed his lips to Draco's.

The frames of Harry's glasses were sharp and cold against Draco's face, but he didn't care. He hadn't realized before how warm Harry's lips were, how soft, how mobile. Draco opened his mouth, and Harry gasped. There was no reason for this, Draco thought, his eyes closed. No reason at all.

There was no reason for Draco to find himself staring at Harry across the Great Hall that night, no reason to pull him into an empty classroom the next afternoon, no reason for them to plan to meet in this dim, half-hidden little room, shielded through an obfuscating charm Harry had learned from Granger. There was certainly no reason for Draco to find himself shaking as he traced uncharacteristically gentle hands along Harry's body, on top of his clothes, and no reason at all for him to come the moment Harry's hesitant fingers trailed below Draco's waistband and brushed against his cock.

When he'd recovered, he was horrified to find himself blushing in mortification, but Harry only touched him further, tugging at his silver and green tie, spreading open his shirt and studying the pale skin of his chest with an intensity Draco previously had seen him exhibit only on the Quidditch pitch.

Perhaps Harry was thinking along the same lines, because his gaze rose to meet Draco's. "What are we playing at here?" he asked, his eyes clouded with lust and confusion.

Draco still trembled slightly with the aftereffects of orgasm, and could feel Harry's erection pressing into his thigh as they lay sprawled together on the sofa. It wasn't as if he were a virgin, he reminded himself. It wasn't like Harry Potter was the first person—or even the first boy—he'd ever fumbled with in a darkened room. He'd done the platitudes before, the empty phrases that said, _Thanks for the shag, maybe we can do it again sometime, at my convenience._ But at that moment, he found only stark honesty on his tongue, mixed with the taste of Harry. "I don't know," he said.

Harry pressed his face into Draco's neck, his breath warming the skin there, and he groaned as Draco moved his thigh against Harry's groin. "Whatever it is," he murmured, teeth catching at Draco's ear, "it's dangerous."

Draco slid a hand into Harry's trousers and tried not to think of impending darkness.

They began to meet almost every night, whenever they could get away from friends or other responsibilities. When they tussled in the hallways, it was more for the secret pleasure of touching than from any outright ire. Draco watched Harry move through the halls with a sense of possessive wonder he couldn't remember feeling in years. _That belongs to me_ , he'd think. _I know how to make him whimper, how to make him writhe. Mine._

But somehow it wasn't all whimpering and writhing. One night Harry shied away when Draco knelt to undo Harry's trousers. "I don't want to," was all he'd say.

"Why?" Draco insisted.

Harry tucked himself into a corner of the sofa. "I don't feel like it. I've had a bad day."

Yes, Draco remembered, Snape had been particularly harsh that day—much to Draco's delight—and he thought he recalled hearing something about Harry fighting with the Weasel. Still, nasty teachers and angry friends were no excuse for passing on a blowjob. Particularly when one was to be on the receiving end.

Irritated, he threw himself back onto the sofa and glared, arms crossed sulkily across his chest. "Why bother coming here at all then?" he sneered.

Harry stared off into the corner and raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Dunno," he said. "I just…needed to see you." He turned to face Draco, and Draco managed just in time to close his jaw, which had dropped open in shock at the confession. Harry's eyes were wide in the dimness, and when Draco uncrossed his arms, he slid across the sofa cushions and tucked himself against Draco's side, his head against the other boy's chest, heart beating in his ear. Draco looked down in surprise at the unruly black hair that curled against the white of his shirtfront, and hesitantly trailed his fingers through it. Harry pressed his face closer, and Draco slid his hand downward, gingerly snugging his arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry tucked an arm around Draco's waist and sighed.

They sat in that position for hours, just breathing together as the snow fell outside and the castle slept around them.

Other times were hard and fast, like a chemical reaction reaching the flash point. They would no sooner be inside the charmed doorway when their clothes would be off and various needs attended to. It was one of these nights, as Draco drew his mouth tightly up the length of Harry's erection, that Harry shuddered and jerked and came and moaned, "God, I love you!"

Draco sat back on his heels as he ran his tongue along the corners of his lips. "Is that so, Potter?" he asked, amused.

Harry sprawled bonelessly against the back of the sofa, knees wide, arms limp on either side. He opened his eyes with clear effort and managed to half focus on Draco. One corner of his mouth tilted upward, almost drunkenly. "Yeah," he said, and closed his eyes again. "I think it is."

Draco was silent for a moment, his breath quickening in anger. "No, you don't," he said.

Harry opened one eye and stretched, looking almost amused. "I think I would know better than you."

"You don't," Draco insisted. There was a queer hitch in his breathing now, and he hated himself for it. "It's only sex."

Now Harry laughed outright. "We haven't even…you know…yet."

"Fucked," Draco said bluntly. "We haven't fucked."

A blush spread over Harry's skin, which would have been amusing, considering what they'd just been doing, if Draco hadn't felt so panicked all of a sudden. "Do you want to?" Harry asked.

Draco had to shake his head to focus on the question. "Do I want to?"

"I asked you." Harry was still blushing.

"I…well…yeah, of course." How had he lost control of the conversation?

"So do I," Harry said, and his gaze was direct. "But I wouldn't do that with someone I didn't…you know…love."

"You don't love me," Draco said.

Harry sighed and bent forward to grasp Draco's hands and draw him forward onto the sofa. Draco didn't resist, though his mouth was set in a stubborn line. Harry kissed his ear. "You'll get used to the idea."

Draco closed his eyes and tried to remember to breathe.

The next day, the letter from his father arrived. Draco had been expecting it, and its contents were not a surprise. He smirked at the other students in his House while the letter incinerated itself, singeing the tips of his fingers.

It was three nights later that Draco fucked Harry for the first time. He felt awkward, more awkward than he'd felt with anyone since his first fumblings with Pansy Parkinson when he was twelve. He touched Harry's body as if it all were new to him, tracing the line of his sternum, his lightly muscled chest, the dip of his navel, lower. When he slid inside for the first time, Harry winced and made small noises, and Draco pressed kisses along his skin, moving slowly, letting Harry adjust, feeling a sense of desperate completion that made him shiver in spite of the heat. Harry groaned, almost as if in pain. A virgin sacrifice, Draco thought, moving faster, feeling Harry move with him. The gods could be vengeful.

In the last moments, Harry opened his eyes, and their gazes locked. His scar stood out in livid relief on his forehead, and the last thing Draco saw before he tumbled into the abyss was the vivid green of Harry's eyes, glinting in the darkness. He saw green, green, and it was like death. The little _Avada Kedavra_.

Afterward, they curled together on the sofa and watched the low fire in silence, the flames casting ominous shadows on the walls. Maybe that was what made Harry think of war. Of _after_.

Now Draco looks at him, huddled in the opposite corner of the sofa, naked, vulnerable, and perhaps more innocent than he was even half an hour ago.

The letter had been explicit in its instructions—he was to join the other Death Eater initiates at half eleven to sneak out of Hogwarts and be portkeyed to the ceremony. To flout these commands would be to court punishment, perhaps even death.

Draco checks the watch he'd abandoned next to his clothes. It is after midnight. Likely the others have left without him by now. No one knows where he is, or could find the room even if they looked.

He stands and begins to don his clothes, while Harry sits on the sofa and watches him with hollow eyes, curling a little more tightly into himself.

Draco shrugs into his robes and stands before the fire, his back to Harry. With his right hand, he rolls up his left sleeve, tracing a finger across the unmarked skin of his forearm. He wraps his hand hard around the pale skin, taut muscle, fine hairs, and turns to face Harry again. Harry's eyebrows lower as Draco steps closer to him.

Draco stands over Harry—this brave, stupid boy who has pelted him with snowballs, shoved at him in hallways, loved him with a youthful idealism. How can he be prescient enough to give what Draco needs, but not realize what Draco has given in return?

_Is that all I am to you, Draco?_

Their eyes connect, and Draco lifts his hand from his arm, raising his fingers to trace the edge of Harry's clenched jaw.

He says only, "What do _you_ think, Potter?"


End file.
